


on getting there, eventually.

by nebulusted



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, Homesickness, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 17:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15490593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulusted/pseuds/nebulusted
Summary: he only ever gets the not-quite confessions, the not-quite truths, the not-quite vulnerabilities from her.he's getting closer, though.---an allurance one-shot.





	on getting there, eventually.

They find the cure for their homesicknesses in the lounge.

Maybe not quite a cure, really, but a treatment - something pulsing gently with grief for things not yet dead and hope for things passed for millennia. They don’t bother putting a name to it, no, not when words are spoken in hushed tones and glances obscured by polite ignorance.

“I missed a birthday for this, which means I missed mom’s rice pudding, which means the universe really wasn’t worth defending in the first place.”

The exasperated way that Lance tosses a single hand towards the ceiling is punctuated with its over-dramatic drop back against his forehead. He takes the opportunity to move around, shift his weight, stretch his toes towards the end of the sunken couch and hunch his shoulders up to his ears. ‘Relaxation’ has become foreign, and no matter how easy it previously was to throw himself down in a tangle of limbs and carelessness, it’s become a difficult battlefield to navigate.

It doesn’t feel natural, all stretched out in false confidence (he’s given that up, now, in exchange for something blossoming and blooming), and maybe that’s why he pulls his knees up to his chest and rolls to his side in order to face his company.

The lights have been dim for the better part of the past hour. Whatever fluorescent particles still remain bounce off of the mess of champagne curls across from him, and he swears that they sparkle as their owner shifts, nebula bursting and galaxies expanding with ancient constellations - or maybe it’s the drowsiness talking, lids half-mast and breathing slow and rhythmic.

(That’s bull, and he knows it - it’s all Allura, just like it should be.)

“You can’t miss your own birthday, Lance. It came and went.“ There’s a hesitance there, and they can both feel it. Palpable, hanging thick and heavy in the air because no, he didn’t miss the day, but he missed the idea. “I suppose it just wasn’t at home.” 

He ignores how Allura’s voice has gone soft, lilting, gentle with him in care and kindness and practiced strength. He ignores how she’s paralleled him now, knees pulled to her chin at the mention of home, tentative glances put on hold - he ignores it all for the opportunity to say something true. 

“Nah, ‘lura,” and he pauses, ever-careful, ever-hesitant, to meter his breathing and shrug his shoulders and ultimately speak with finality. “Sure, food goo doesn’t sound nearly as great as mom’s cooking, and there’s no rainy days and shitty movie marathons, but it’s home. Just different.”

And that’s what everything here is, or what it’s starting to become - just different.

“Home stopped existing for me ten thousand years ago.” 

He can recognize the tightness in her voice now, from more nights spent here than he can count on both hands, and part of him is seized with the desperate urge to act. It’s tempting, she’s always tempting, and it’s all Lance can manage to keep himself from meeting her across the floor and bringing her close to his chest, because he doesn’t like the hurt - 

(three seconds, three seconds for her to keep going, he will give her all the space she needs)

“It feels less like a loss each time we get closer to my father’s goal, though.” Her breathing is back in its safe, collected pattern, and part of it sends a pang through his chest because he knows that the bravery and the collectedness and the calm exterior is just a shell, but he can’t tear it down all at once. 

Progress comes slowly, and he is willing to wait.

(Later, when Allura is alone in silence and solidarity, she takes the time to admire his reliability, his care, his maturity, but not here.)

“Tell me about Altea.”

They’re the last words that fall from Lance’s lips that night - he’s lulled to sleep, body curled in on itself, face turned towards the source of the soft words and gentle laughs that send him adrift. Allura talks about constellations, star systems, weather patterns - there’s adoration and nostalgia tinting her voice in hues of pinks and purples, and the colors bleed through into his dreams. 

When she talks, she becomes too great for the universe itself, and the body that attempts to constrain her is too small. Lance thinks, no, knows that she is all there is, that there are planets and entire solar systems radiating throughout her bones. Her days are spent shoring her defenses and her poker face could best any gambling champion he’s seen, but it’s here that she lets herself spill over, and he’s washed away in it until his eyes slip shut and his breathing evens out.

Allura tugs the blanket at his feet back around his shoulders and brushes his hair back with her fingertips, considerate and compassionate and fleeting before she is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @nebulusted !


End file.
